Of Honour, Power, and Wolves
by DareU2Bme
Summary: Stiles' life is about to be turned upside down by his curiosity of the mysterious prisoner in Duke Guaire's dungeon. You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat... perhaps in this case it is more like, curiosity set the cat out on a mad adventure dealing with magic and politics, wolves and villains, all to clear his father's name and expose a corrupt duke...
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter Rating:** PG

**Word Count:** 9,387  
**Pairings:** Derek/Stiles, Scott/Allison, Lydia/Jackson  
**Warnings:** none for this chapter

* * *

**Of Honour, Power, and Wolves**

chapter one

* * *

Stiles pressed closer to the trunk of the large oak tree, knuckles turning white and thighs starting to tremble with the effort it took to hold on. He squinted in the low light of the dusk, trying to decipher the figures gathered around the caged wagon. The horse-drawn contraption was oddly altered, boarded up across the sides as if to keep the prisoner inside a secret. Stiles couldn't help but roll his eyes at that; given the meddling minds of the locals and general lack of interesting events in the area, something like that could only serve to add intrigue to an otherwise mundane sight.

The wagon had stopped near the back entrance of the Tower Capalláidir and Stiles recognized the profile and gait of his father as the commander of Duke Guaire's personal regiment walked out to meet the two soldiers who had jumped down from the sides of the wagon. The men spoke in hushed voices before all turning to look at the wagon that currently looked like a wooden box on wheels.

The horses hooked to it were acting uncharacteristically anxious for creatures as well trained as they. Four other men came out of the tower carrying long metal poles with chains on the end. Stiles saw his father's minute nod, a movement so familiar that he could recognize it even at a distance. At his father's signal, the group of men all moved to the back of the caged wagon. With a dull, heavy sound of metal and wood moving, the back opened and the men were quick to move forward and reach inside. They must have hooked the chains at the ends of their iron poles to the shackles around the limbs of their prisoner, because moments later they were leading the staggering figure out of the wagon.

Who was this person who needed such secretive and heavily armed transport? Stiles leaned forward on the bulky tree branch as far as he dared. Suddenly, one of the horses bolted forward and a shout echoed in the quiet evening as the men worked to keep hold of the prisoner while others moved quickly to grab at the horses. The prisoner, however, did not move; he simply stood silently, watching the mess of nervous men try to quiet the riled animals. With the help of one of the soldiers, the driver was able to get the horses under control, and Stiles' father waved him off. He drove away, the sounds of hooves echoing through the quiet evening. Stiles turned his attention back to the prisoner.

The captive man was dressed in clothes that more closely resembled torn rags, his chest nearly bare. He walked with a stoop, his back hunched and his knees bent as if he couldn't straighten them. His torso looked bulky as if he worked a hard job like in the forests or mines. The men led him to the tower door using the poles as leashes that could lead him without allowing him to get too close to them. Odd. The poles resembled something that would be used on wild animals, not simple humans.

Stiles furrowed his brow wondering how any single person could possibly be such a threat as to require that sort of treatment. The prisoner looked angry but calm. It seemed, really, a little ridiculous that even though he was the one being led to face however long in a dungeon and perhaps even some torture, he was the only one who seemed calm. His face was in shadow, but his movements were easy for Stiles to see. They were stiff as if all his muscles were bunched, gathered and ready if opportunity arose. He moved slowly, deliberately, taking in his surroundings and seemingly unbothered by the number of armed men around him. Stiles was watching from a fair distance and it was steadily growing darker with the encroaching night and yet, the man in chains had eyes that seemed to flash with colour. Stiles nearly fell out of his tree when the man looked in his direction. His breath left his lungs as he imagined that the prisoner looked directly at him, seeing him in his hiding spot. He couldn't have seen him, though, could he?

The group of men led the man into the stone tower, Stiles' father following at the back. Being the commander, it was part of his job to oversee such things.

Once the large iron doors were shut, Stiles was left in near silence. The crickets in the fields and gardens near the castle chirped, a soft breeze rustled the leaves, but otherwise, everything was still and quiet. He climbed down from the tree as gracefully as he could manage, which in the end wasn't very graceful at all. His muscles were stiff from being still for so long after hours of training and his 'graceful' landing consisted mostly of him falling on his backside and scrambling to find his footing. Grabbing up his sack of training gear - ugh, it smelled foul, it badly needed to be laundered - and jogged down the dirt path toward home.

Night had truly fallen by the time Stiles' father arrived home a few hours later looking worn and tired. Stiles had used the time to bathe, to wash his gear and hang it to dry, and to set about starting their night time meal. He nearly dropped the wooden spoon into the stew in his haste to approach his father once the man had set foot into their small manor.

"Hey! Uhh..." Stiles stammered out, coming to an awkward halt in front of his father. The older man paused in peeling off his boots to tiredly regard him. "Sorry, just... what's going on with the caged wagon? Why was it all boarded up?"

"What?" asked his father sharply. "How do you know about..."

Stiles slapped hand over his mouth, he had meant to inconspicuously wheedle it out of his father, not just ask it straight out.

"Stiles," sighed out his father in a long-suffering exhale. "Must you always poke your nose into private matters?"

"Just a healthy dose of curiosity, pops," said Stiles, toeing the ground and feeling sheepish. "You know how I am."

"Mmhmmm." His father sighed, finishing his task of removing his boots and tabard before stepping into the worn turnshoes he kept for wearing inside their home - humble for the abode of the duke's commander.

Stiles followed after him when he strode through the great hall toward the kitchen. His father sniffed appreciatively at the air before picking up the long-handled wooden spoon and giving the pot of stew a stir.

"I just stirred it," said Stiles, trying not to sound too annoyed. He wasn't some infant who knew nothing of cooking. He'd had a hand in doing it since - well; better to not think on that.

His father didn't respond, but simply set the wooden spoon back down and left the kitchen through the opposite doorway. He stepped past the heavy fabric partition that covered the doorway to the solar and Stiles stopped short at the drapery, not following him in. He could hear the rustling of his father changing out of his royal uniform and waited impatiently for him to finish.

"But seriously," said Stiles once his father had reappeared, "that was a lot of swords for just one skin."

"We were just being cautious," replied his father, simply, before flopping down in the wooden armed, red chair that sat in the corner of the small area between kitchen and solar.

"No wonder the taxes are upped so often if it takes six men and the commander of the ducal guard to move one criminal," said Stiles, grinning because he knew something was up and he just loved juicy information.

"Stiles," replied his father in the deep, commanding tone he usually saved for speaking to his men. It sounded slightly resigned, though, as he spoke to his son, as if he knew the lad would get it out of him, eventually. "Just leave it alone."

Stiles frowned but nodded, anxious as he was to solve the mystery, he still knew enough not to push his father after such a long day. The sound of sizzling startled him forward and he quickly moved back into the kitchen to move the pot to a cooler section of the wood stove. The mixture had boiled over just a little, but it was enough to momentarily fill the room with the putrid scent of burning gravy.

"Smells good," his father offered before pulling out two wooden bowls to hand to Stiles. "Is Mistress 'Lissa still sick?"

"She's much better," replied Stiles, ignoring his father's weak compliment considering the room smelled of the burnt bubbled-over stew. "Resting, though."

"Good," replied his father, distractedly.

"Yeah," agreed Stiles absently as he scooped a few spoonfuls of stew into the first bowl before passing it to his father.

"How was training today?" his father asked before turning to take his seat at the bulky wooden table in the far corner of the kitchen, no point eating in the great hall.

"Fine," replied Stiles, filling his own bowl and then taking a seat diagonally from his father.

"Learn any new moves?"

"Nope."

Stiles took a bite of his stew, breathing in through his teeth when he realized it was much too hot for his mouth.

"What did you cover?" asked his father before blowing on his spoonful.

"Hand to hand, then piking."

"Yeah?" asked his father, looking suddenly more interested. "Who were you paired with for hand to hand?"

"Scott."

His father made a noise of amusement in the back of his throat before shaking his head.

"Of course."

"Yep," replied Stiles before standing up. "We should have bread with this."

"How'd it go?" asked his father as Stiles left him.

Stiles ground his teeth and rolled his eyes while retrieving the loaf of bread where it was wrapped in cloth on the far counter.

"Well," said Stiles, setting the bread down on the table and breaking off a piece for his father. "We'll both be sore in the morning."

His father nodded, smiling in a strained way that showed good humour while also giving away his weariness. Stiles sat back down and watched his father dip the chunk of bread into his bowl of stew before turning his attention to his own meal. They ate in silence; his father a man of few words and tired from a long day and Stiles not wanting to talk military training any more than he had to. After a while, though, his curiosity about the happenings earlier that evening had him bouncing his leg under the table. He watched his father slowly eat as he turned over what information he had gathered from spying.

"So, is he like a warrior or something?" Stiles couldn't help but burst out a few moments later.

"Stiles," warned his father in monotone.

"Maybe he's a personal guard to one of the opposing dukes."

"Stiles."

"Or maybe he is one of the guys leading the miners' protest... wait, no, why so much security for just some peasant miner guy?"

His father sighed in annoyance.

"Is he a spy?" asked Stiles in an excited hiss, his eyes widening in excitement. "Oh! Like one of the ninja rogues from the East?"

"Stiles!" bellowed his father, slamming an open hand down on the wooden table.

Stiles jumped in his seat before shooting him a guilty smile.

"Sorry."

"Can you please just let it lie?"

"Yeah, of course!" replied Stiles, nodding emphatically before taking a bite of his stew. He mumbled "like a sleeping dog" before scooping another spoonful from his bowl.

They sat in silence for a few moments before being interrupted by a knock on the door. Stiles' father rose from the table and left to answer it. Once he was out of sight, Stiles quickly set his spoon down and stood from the table, hurrying over to the doorway between kitchen and great hall to see who had come.

Two of the higher ranking guards stepped into the manor, speaking to Stiles' father in hushed tones. His father turned back in that moment and his eyes landed on Stiles who grinned sheepishly.

"Come, sit," said his father to the two men. "I was just eating a late supper."

Stiles had the sense to grab his father's bowl and spoon and quickly bring it out to the long table at the front of the great hall.

"I can bring more for you, sirs," he said to the men as he placed the bowl at the table.

"No," said one, even though the other was looking at the half-finished rabbit stew with hungry eyes. "We came to speak on matters of the..."

"Stiles," cut in his father, suddenly. "You should leave us. I am sure you are tired from your training."

"Yes," said Stiles, regrettably. "I was finished eating anyway."

His stomach growled in hunger as he ducked through the second door at the end of the great hall to the family solar. He flopped down on his bed once he had reached his bedroom. He stared up at the fabric hanging above his bed for a few moments before the low murmur of voices was too much to bear and he was up and creeping back to the edge of the hall and crouching next to the doorway.

"The full moon is two nights away," spoke one of the men.

His father hummed in response.

"He will turn," spoke the other.

"He could turn tonight," countered Stiles' father.

"Will the cell hold him?" asked the first man, sounding fearful.

"We shall hope," said Stiles' father.

"What does the duke want with him?"

"I am not certain," answered Stiles' father. "He is calling a meeting on the subject."

"What are we to do in the meantime?"

"Make sure he does not bite you," replied Stiles' father gravely, though there was some sardonic humour in his voice.

Stiles was confused; what did it all mean? He crept away from where he had been listening and looked out his bedroom window, watching as the stars were appearing in the sky. Who was this prisoner? Why were the guards so on edge? Why was his father being so secretive?

He needed to know.

Feeling antsy with curiosity thrumming beneath his skin, Stiles decided to sneak out to find his friend. Together they could wonder at the facts.

* * *

"Stiles! What are you doing in my bedchamber?" hissed Scott. "I almost called the guards! Think of the scandal!"

Shrugging off his best friend's reaction, Stiles finished climbing into the bedroom through the castle window.

"I came bearing news of something much more interesting than the nighttime endeavors of the duke's son," said Stiles, smirking. "Oh, and I brought you this, too," he hastily added, pulling a folded paper from inside his cloak.

Scott quickly took it.

"A letter from my mum?" he asked.

Stiles nodded.

"Why does she insist on sending letters?" he complained as he unfolded it. "Why will she not come speak to me herself?"

"She does not wish to disgrace you with her presence... as you know."

"How is it a disgrace?" asked Scott in frustration. "She is allowed to visit her only son! She has permission and it isn't as though the entire dukedom doesn't already know of my bastard...hood."

Stiles winced.

"You've been recognized by the Duke," said Stiles. "Let it lie, Scott, you do not need to label yourself so vilely."

"The duchess thinks it," said Scott, staring unseeingly down at the letter.

"Nothing is keeping you from visiting your mother, you realize," said Stiles, moving the conversation forward with the knowledge of how his friend was prone to mope.

"I would not embarrass her with my presence in the house she serves," said Scott detestably.

With quick movements, Stiles smacked Scott on the back of his head.

"Ow!" gasped Scott, bringing a hand up to the back of his head. "Damnation, Stiles! I'll call the guards yet!"

"You will not," scoffed Stiles. "Now listen, I have news."

Scott sighed and plopped down in an armchair by the open window Stiles had clambered through moments before.

"Let's hear it, then," he said in resignation. "What town gossip have you gotten hold of this time? You're practically an old woman, Stiles."

"I resent that," said Stiles, shaking his head at Scott. "No, this news is my own first hand account."

"Of what?"

"Scandal! Intrigue! Mystery!"

Scott raised an eyebrow.

"There's a new prisoner in Tower Capalláidir," explained Stiles.

"Is that all?"

Stiles made a face, twitching in frustration at Scott's lack of enthusiasm.

"Are you not even the slightest bit curious of this news?" he asked.

Scott let out a heavy sigh and leaned back in his armchair letting his head fall heavily to the dark red fabric at his back.

"I'm more curious of this Allison of the house of Argenté," he said in a whoosh of breath. "I am to meet her in just over a month's time."

"You're already betrothed," replied Stiles with the annoyance of having said it all before. "You already know she is considered plus belle la terre," he continued with sarcastic flourish. "You have heard the descriptions sung of her, of her long brown hair, her soft red lips, and her deep warm know that their family is of very high standing and this can only mean good things for your future, you lucky... horse's... ass. What else is there to be curious of?"

"But will she like me?" he asked, staring off into some unseen place with the face of a lovesick puppy.

Stiles faked a gagging sound as if he were to vomit.

"Shut up," exclaimed Scott, grabbing a fringed cushion from his side and throwing it at Stiles.

Stiles effectively ducked the pillow before leveling Scott with a glare.

"You don't even deserve my news," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I'm sorry, Stiles," said Scott, frowning apologetically though it wasn't very persuasive because the corners of his mouth kept flickering with amusement. "Please tell me about the new prisoner."

Stiles looked like he would hold out on Scott as punishment, but began twitching shortly after with the desire to share. Finally, he dropped down into the chair opposite Scott's, leaning forward in excitement, eyes wide and sparkling with mischief.

"So, I stayed late after practise today..."

"I am aware."

Stiles gave Scott a look, clenching his jaw in annoyance. Scott put up his hands in surrender, before nodding for him to go on.

"...and when I went to leave, I saw the caged wagon coming through the castle gate," continued Stiles. "The thing was, it was boarded up instead of open like usual."

"Why would they do that?" asked Scott, finally starting to be pulled in.

"Because they don't want us to see what's inside," answered Stiles, grinning excitedly.

"But you did," prompted Scott, leaning forward in his seat.

Stiles bit his lips together and nodded.

"What was it?"

"I don't know who he was," said Stiles. Scott looked unimpressed seeming to have realized it was just some guy and this story was growing quickly uninteresting again. Stiles quickly continued. "I've never seen him before. He was built like a soldier, like really built. He was dressed in torn rags. I don't think he's from here."

"A spy?"

"Maybe?" answered Stiles with a shrug. "That's not the best part, though... They had him in chains like they would an animal. It took six men plus my father to take him into the tower."

"Was he violent?"

"That's the thing," said Stiles, shaking his head. "He just walked in for them, no problem."

"Why would they need so many men?" mused Scott.

"I don't know," said Scott. "Then, later when we were having our supper, two soldiers came to talk to father. They were asking strange things about the prisoner."

"What kind of strange things?"

"They were worried that the tower wouldn't be able to hold him," said Stiles giving Scott an incredulous look as he said it like he couldn't believe it though he had borne witness.

"Tower Capallaidir?" asked Scott in surprise.

Stiles nodded emphatically.

"That..." started Scott, furrowing his brow. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Father said something about not letting him bite them," added Stiles.

"Wh..."

There was a knock at Scott's door. Scott and Stiles stared at each other with wide eyes for a moment before Stiles was practically falling out of his chair in his haste to get to the window.

"Lord Scott?" asked the voice of an elderly woman from behind the heavy wooden door. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," called back Scott, his voice slightly more shrill than usual.

"I heard voices," spoke the voice again.

"I was dreaming," answered Scott.

"Tomorrow," hissed Stiles as he was crawling through the window. "After practise. We're going."

"Going?" whispered Scott looking back over at Stile in confusion.

"To see the prisoner," whispered back Stiles.

"What?" exclaimed Scott.

"I asked if I could come in," replied the elderly woman's voice from the other side of the door.

Scott's eyes widened in fear and he looked between the large wooden door and Stiles face where he was looking in the window after climbing out. Stiles shook his head at Scott.

"Uh, no, I'm fine, you shouldn't... trouble yourself," exclaimed Scott.

The door began to creak open and Stiles quickly ducked down, nearly losing his footing on the stone wall and falling to his doom.

"STOP!" exclaimed Scott. "I... I'm NAKED!"

"What?" asked the old woman standing in his doorway, quickly covering her face with her hand. "Why are you naked, my lord?"

"I... I was... I took off my bedclothes in my sleep," said Scott.

Stiles was trying not to laugh.

"I... I was sleepwalking and I... took them off," answered Scott. "I'm fine, please just go. I was talking in my sleep and walking in my sleep and... yeah, I am sorry if I woke you, Madame Eithne."

"Tis not a good omen, sleepwalking," said the stooped, old woman before turning to leave, one hand still over her eyes. "Not good 'tall."

"I'll try not to do it again," replied Scott.

Once the door was closed, he ran across the room and looked out his window to see Stiles halfway down the wall.

"I'm not going to Capalláidir," called out Scott in a low voice. "We're not permitted."

Stiles didn't answer, just kept climbing down the side of the wall like a spider. Scott watched him until both feet were safely on the ground.

"I'm not going, Stiles," he called out, unsure if the other actually heard him over the sound of the ocean and wind, and the distance now between them.

He watched Stiles run across the grassy cliff and out of view before letting out a frustrated huff and turning to his bed.

* * *

The next day, hot and sweaty after spending the morning and much of the afternoon training with Armsmaster Finstock, Stiles and a very hesitant Scott made their way across the first bailey to the tower. They walked past the oak tree where Stiles had perched the evening before, then they walked down the dirt road to the entrance of the tower.

Stiles stumbled into the tower, missing the last step in the dim lighting and nearly faceplanting on the straw covered stone floor. He quickly regained his balance, righting himself and straightening his clothes while glancing around. Scott stepped down the stray stair next to him looking nervous.

"What are you doing here?" asked the soldier standing guard.

"Finstock sent us," Scott tried, though it came out stuttering and obviously a lie. Stiles gave him an annoyed look.

"He said something about a training exercise and touring the tower and keep," offered Stiles since it wasn't actually a lie, the man had said something about it at one time.

"Huh," exhaled the soldier, relaxing his stance a little. "Sounds... unnecessary."

"Yeah, well, you know him..." trailed off Stiles awkwardly.

"He is an odd man," agreed the soldier. "Don't cause any trouble while you're here."

Stiles nodded and walked around the round ground floor of the tower. It was an open alley with three cells on its sides. A few paces forward was the base of the spiral staircase that would take soldiers up to the higher levels of the tower for defensive measures. The three cells to the sides were barred in with iron bars, only one was in use. The prisoner Stiles had seen the other night was crouched in it and looking at Stiles with feigned disinterest but genuine suspicion. He was slumped in a corner looking very cold in his torn rags, Stiles wanted to pity him but the prisoner's eyes were unsettlingly piercing.

"So, you, uh, put the dangerous criminals in here?" asked Stiles, kicking lightly at the bars of one of the empty cells and trying to appear nonchalant.

The soldier huffed at him like he was an idiot.

"Dangerous criminals?" he said. "We just kill them. This is for people who need a trial or are of particular interest."

"So, who's that guy?" asked Stiles, nodding toward the silent prisoner.

"No one of importance," said the soldier, his jaw flexing.

"So, he's just waiting for a trial?" asked Scott.

The soldier looked annoyed.

"Perhaps it would be best if you toured the keep now, lads," he said gruffly.

"Yeah," stammered out Stiles, jerking toward the door while glancing back and forth between the soldier and the prisoner. "Uh... thanks... bye."

Scott and Stiles left through the second entrance that would take them to the other bailey where the keep stood only paces away from the tower. They blinked in the bright sunlight once outside of the darkness of the tower.

"That was odd," said Scott.

"It was," agreed Stiles, glancing back at the tower they were slowly leaving behind. "There's something that soldier didn't want us to know about."

Scott nodded. They stopped just before the keep and Stiles looked back at Scott.

"So," he said, nodding his head at the venerable fortress. "Would you like to go tour the keep?"

Scott frowned in confusion.

"Why?"

Stiles huffed out a breath and gave Scott a mildly annoyed look before saying, "well, it would be suspicious if we didn't since you said..."

"You mean what you said!" cut in Scott.

Stiles scrunched his nose in irritation before shrugging and continuing toward the keep.

"Liars get their tongues cut out," he called over his shoulder, "good thing you're a duke's son."

He grinned when he heard Scott groan before hurrying to catch up to him.

* * *

The moon was watching Stiles through his bedroom window. Okay, it wasn't really watching him, it was just a piece of cosmic stone floating in the heavens. No matter what the kaillek said, it wasn't an actual being with the ability to watch or see or comprehend. Still, Stiles couldn't help but feel that odd unsettled feeling one might get when they were being watched. He buried his face in his feather pillow and groaned in frustration at his sleepless night before turning to the side to peek one eye out at the moon. It had the audacity to still be there hanging just off centre in the frame of his window and the black space of the night sky. Stiles let out another annoyed sound before pushing up and out from his pile of blankets to storm across his room and shut the drape across his window. As he reached for the rope pull, though, he heard a wolf howl in the distance.

He stood still, peering out into the night, his eyes naturally searching for the source of the sound though he knew he wouldn't see it; the wolf's voice had carried from far away. He could feel goosebumps rising on his arms and quickly began to rub them away as if he could rid himself of the eerie feeling the mournful howl had caused.

The air was sharp in its chill and Stiles shivered before grabbing his robe and putting it on. He stared out the window at some of the faster moving clouds as they lazily glided across the nearly-full moon's face. His thoughts turned unbidden back to the mystery prisoner, not wanting to give up on the puzzle before it was solved. He pulled his clothing a bit closer, the air by the window being so much chillier than further into his room by his fireplace, and it made him think of the man's clothes. The prisoner had been wearing the most tattered of rags that barely looked recognizable as once being clothing. Stiles shivered sympathetically imagining how cold he would be in the unheated tower dungeon.

Stiles decided to take him a blanket and perhaps one of his outer garments in the morning. Whatever the guy had done, he was already paying for it with his imprisonment, it didn't seem right that he would be left to freeze to death, too. Who knew what other fate he had in store on top of that, or what else had been taken away from him when they had taken his freedom. Yeah, Stiles was definitely not cut out for this whole soldier thing.

He let out a sigh and left the window, letting the heavy drape fall back over it to hold in the heat and keep out the light of the moon. He climbed into bed and closed his eyes hoping he wouldn't think of wolves or prisoners in towers and just fall asleep.

* * *

Stiles awoke the next morning to the sound of his father and Mistress Melissa conversing in the hall. He groaned, tired from lack of sleep, and rolled out of his bed. Groggily, he went about getting dressed for the day before slipping out of his room and into the grand hall. His father was sitting at the long table eating his morning meal and going over some papers.

"Good morning Master Stiles," she said brightly. "Let me go fetch you a plate."

"Uggh," groaned Stiles rubbing a hand harshly over his face. "Thank you, Mistress 'Lissa."

He sat down heavily diagonally from his father and let his head fall to the heavy wood of the long table.

"Didn't you go to bed early last night?" asked his father after taking a bite of cheese.

"Couldn't sleep," muttered Stiles, not lifting his head.

Only when Mistress Melissa set a plate down in front of him did he finally sit up.

"You are feeling better?" he asked leaning his head on one hand and reaching for the bread on his plate with the other.

"I am, thank you," she replied. "Did you give my message to Scott?"

"Sure did," replied Stiles before taking a bite of his bread. "He hasn't written back yet," he continued through a mouth full of food.

Melissa tutted at his table manners before asking his father if he wanted more ale. When he waved her off, she patted Stiles' shoulder before leaving the great hall. Stiles thought of his plan to take blankets to the prisoner while he slowly ate his bread and cheese. He cringed when he thought of the fact that he was sitting near his father, the commander, while thinking of how he would get in to see the secret prisoner. Quickly, he chipmunked the rest of his breakfast before pushing back from the table to hurry back to his room.

"Suddenly in a hurry?" questioned his father from behind him.

Stiles stopped and forced himself to swallow the last mouthful of his breakfast, it was scratchy and underchewed as it travelled down his throat, before spinning around and grimacing a weak smile at his father.

"Uh... yeah," he said. "Got something to do before training."

His father gave him a long, calculating look before shrugging to himself and turning back to the papers sitting next to his plate that he had been reading through.

"Train hard."

"Grow strong," answered Stiles, nodding.

He pulled a couple wool blankets from the large wardrobe in his room and stuffed them in his burlap sack he kept his training gear in. Then he pulled a dark grey outer garment from his wardrobe and held it garment up to inspect. It was one of his warmest, made for wearing during the winter months, but he kind of hated it for how itchy it could be at the base of his throat. It would be good for the prisoner in the cold stone tower except... except it probably wouldn't fit him considering his bulky torso. Stiles put the tunic back and instead grabbed a heavy wool cloak and shoved it in his sack.

He hurried out of the manor with the stuffed sack heavy on his shoulder hoping he wouldn't look suspicious to his father. Luckily, his father was no longer in the great hall when he passed through to the front door. The morning sun was already hot in the sky overhead and Stiles could feel sweat moistening his brow when he passed through the castle gates.

As he was stumbling down the main path through the first bailey of the castle his mind filled with thoughts of how he would go about getting the supplies to the prisoner, the sweet smell of baking reached his nose. He followed his nose down the path and through the tunnel gate of the second bailey where most of the castle fair lay. He grinned when he saw the red headed baker girl step out of the little stone house with a tray of freshly baked foods to try to sell that morning.

"Gooood morning sweet lady Lydia," called out Stiles.

She frowned when she saw him rushing toward her.  
"You know I'm betrothed, Stillinski," she said before turning her back to him to start placing the baked goods out on the table to sell to those looking for breakfast.

Stiles frowned and scrunched his nose at the obvious shut down she was giving him, but he wasn't deterred because trying to win Lydia's heart wasn't actually his goal that morning.

"Those pies smell amazing," offered Stiles, taking an exaggerated sniff.

"That is because they are amazing," she replied, still with her back purposely to Stiles. "The recipe is a family speciality that goes back generations."

"How much does one cost?" asked Stiles, dropping his sack to the ground to rifle through his garments to look some coins.

Suddenly, Lydia turned around and gave him a bright smile. All her irritation gone and an almost flirty expression on her face and in her demeanor.

"How much do you have?" she asked.

Stiles awkwardly pulled out his coin purse and showed her the silver and bronze coins he had in his possession. She grinned and grabbed a few, shoving them into the small sachel hanging from her belt.

"Which one would you like?" she then asked.

Even though he knew it was her saleswoman face, Stiles was momentarily speechless having her smile turned on him. She must make her family plenty of money just by smiling at men because Stiles would buy a pie from her every morning just to get a smile from her.

"Uh," he finally replied in a strangled voice. "Actually, I am buying it for someone else. I will send him in a short while to pick it up."

"Whatever pleases you, lord Stiles," she said with a wink before going back to her work.

Stiles swallowed dryly before turning to head back up the path to the first bailey. A few paces later he began to grin. By the time he made it to the Tower Capalláidir the grin had taken over his entire face and he knew he looked like a fool. He paused in front of the tower door and schooled his expression into something less manic before knocking on the door and pushing it open.

"What are you doing here?" asked the soldier, a tall, stout man with a full, chestnut beard falling out from beneath his helmet.

"Hey, uh, I was just..." Stiles stopped and took a deep breath. "You know lady Lydia, the baker's daughter?"

"Who doesn't?"

"She, uh, I think she might fancy you or something?" tried Stiles.

The soldier's brow furrowed in surprise and confusion for a moment before the corners of his mouth began to turn up.

"You sly dog," exclaimed Stiles, grinning in return and stepping into the tower to smack the soldier on the arm. "She does fancy you."

"Nonsense," said the soldier though he looked pleased. "Everyone knows she's betrothed to Jack's adopted son."

"Well, you must have caught her eye because she asked me to tell you she has one of her family's special pies waiting for you."

The soldier's eyes widened in surprise and disbelief before he tilted his head to the side like he was trying to remember what he could have done recently to warrant a gift from the beautiful girl.

"She says they are the best pies, that they are made from an old family recipe," said Stiles, trying to tantalize the man.

"Well, she has seemed to have her eye on me the last few times I met with her father at her house," said the man and suddenly it was Stiles' turn to look surprised, but he quickly covered it with a grin.

"There you go!" he exclaimed, pushing the soldier toward the tower door. "You better go get that pie while it is still fresh and charm your way into that girl's heart while you're at it!"

"I can't just leave my post," complained the soldier.

Stiles glanced over at the lone prisoner who looked as if he were sleeping where he was curled up in the corner of his cell.

"I'll stand in for you," offered Stiles as if that weren't his goal all along. "He looks to be asleep anyway."

"Okay," answered the soldier hesitantly, "but if this should get back to your father..."

"Commander Stillinski will never hear a word from me on the matter," promised Stiles.

"Alright, alright," said the soldier, straightening his uniform and pulling his helmet off his head to brush his fingers through his hair. "How do I look?"

"Dashing," answered Stiles instantly.

The soldier grinned and turned to leave. He paused in the doorway, though, and turned back to Stiles.

"You really think she fancies me?" he asked.

"Who wouldn't," answered Stiles shrilly while gesturing to the soldier.

The soldier grinned and pushed through the heavy door. Stiles let out a sigh of relief once the man was gone and the door shut behind him. He took a deep breath and then turned to the prisoner whose eyes were open and trained on him. Stiles startled having really thought the mysterious man had been asleep.

"I don't like to lie," said Stiles as he approached the prisoner's cell. "So you should feel really very grateful for what I am doing for you."

The prisoner just looked at him, his face neutral, completely devoid of emotion. Stiles twitched under the gaze.

"I brought you some blankets and this outer garment," he said while pulling them out of his sack. "You can't be very warm in here at night, I bet you're freezing with only those torn rags."

The prisoner just continued to stare, silent and unreadable.

"Okay, I'm going to just..." Stiles moved toward the cell to pass the fabrics through the bars. Which was when a low, feral growl started to sound from deep in the prisoner's chest. It wasn't a human growl. Stiles froze before looking up at him with wide eyes. "Wow.. okay, I was just trying to give you these blankets, no need to go all wildman on me."

The growl only grew.

"Errm.. okay, I'll just put this... down... here," stuttered Stiles before dropping the blankets and cloak. He kicked them toward the cell, pushing them through the bars with his toe. It took some time to get them through the bars and the growl just continued to vibrate through the cold room. Finally, successful in his endeavor, Stiles looked up just in time to see the prisoner's eyes flash red.

"Oh, Holy, Mother, of... WOW.. okay... sorry...I just thought you might be cold in those rags..."

The growl grew in decibel and ferocity, then, and Stiles stumbled backward.

"They're very nice rags, don't get me wrong.. I just figured it is getting cold and this tower isn't warm or anything... there's no fireplace or whatever... even the soldiers complain about having to take shifts in here and they wear more layers than your rags."

The growling only grew worse the his eyes kept glowing red.

"Yeah, okay, I'm going to.. stop... talking.. now.. yep... so.. yeah.. enjoy the.. erm.. blankets.. no need to thank me..."

Stiles backed away from the cell, nearly stumbling over himself in his haste and before leaning against the cold, stone wall. He closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing knowing that his nightmares would forever be filled with glowing red eyes from then on. The growling died off and Stiles looked up to see that the prisoner's eyes, though still focused on him, were no longer red. He took a deep breath and turned away from the prisoner again, not able to keep looking at him, his heart pounding and mind reeling.

Finally, the soldier returned with a smug grin on his face and a skip in his stride.

"Everything okay here?" he asked as he grabbed his helmet from the bench behind Stiles and replaced it on his head.

"He's still in his cell," offered Stiles in a wobbly voice.

"Good," said the soldier before grinning at Stiles. "You were right, she did have a pie for me and it was the tastiest pie in the duchy, no, the kingdom."

"Awesome, great... awesome," sputtered Stiles, trying to smile for the soldier. "Well, I better get going, I have... training! YES! Oh, damnation! I'll be late!"

With that, Stiles grabbed his sack and hurried out of the tower leaving a bewildered soldier and a smirking prisoner behind.

* * *

"SCOTT!" bellowed Armsmaster Finstock "Do you think you can move faster than the lifeless corpse of my dead grandmother!?"

Stiles could hear Scott, to his right, mumble something angry in response and snickered to himself before falling to one knee at the armsmaster's command and pulling his sword from his waist with his opposite hand, pike in his other. He worked extra hard that morning, pushing himself harder than he had before, even earning some surprised and impressed looks from Finstock. He worked himself into a stupor, not wanting to think about the prisoner and his crazy red eyes and animalistic growling.

When the small group of young men were finished their grueling hours of training, they moved to stand in a semicircle around armsmaster Finstock, panting and sweating, some crouching forward with their hands on their knees. Jackson, a tall, square-jawed soldier in training who was the swiftest in the group clapped Stiles on the shoulder in an unusual show of camaraderie. Stiles stared straightened to look up at him in surprise.

"You did well today, Stillinski," he said while giving him a grave look as if it were painful for him to admit to the shorter boy. Stiles wondered why he even did it, honestly.

"Alright men," spoke Finstock. "You're finished for the day, good work."

His eyes flashed in annoyance, suddenly, and he called out "Straighten up Greenberg! You think training is hard? This isn't anything! You sissy little baby boys still suckling from your mother's teats within the safety of the walls of the duke's castle! One day you'll be called to do a man's work.. to be a real soldier! The things you will see once you are out in the real world will forever be your personal hell when your memories come back to haunt you in the dark nights."

Finstock suddenly stopped talking and he looked off into the distance with unseeing eyes for a few tense moments before shaking himself and giving the group of young men a grin.

"Let me give you a little advice," he said. "There's three rules that I live by; never get less than twelve hours of sleep, never play cards with the guy with the same first name as a city, and never go near a lady who's got a tattoo of a dagger on her body. Now you stick with that and everything else is cream cheese!"

Stiles grinned to himself before looking sideways to catch Scott's eye. They shared a knowing look before turning their attention back to the odd armsmaster.

"Alright, pack it up, lads," he said to the group. "The duke doesn't pay me enough to look at your sorry asses this long."

The group of boys headed to the side of the castle stables where they had changed into their training gear. Stiles and Scott stuck together, finding a corner of the dusty room to change out of their training gear drenched in sweat and caked in dirt.

"Ugh," groaned Stiles as he pulled on his tunic. "I think I pulled a muscle today."  
"You really pushed yourself today," replied Scott as he pulled on his own clothing. "Your father will be proud."

Stiles let out another groan, this one more to do with thoughts of his father congratulating him on his effort once he heard.

"Why couldn't my father have been a carpenter or a blacksmith or something?" whined Stiles.

"You would hate being a blacksmith," laughed Scott. "The heat alone..."

"Your father is a duke," grumbled Stiles.

Scott simply rolled his eyes.

"And yet," he said, hitching his belt at his waist, "here I am training along with the blacksmith's son."

Stiles smirked at Scott before bending down to put his soiled garments in his sack. More laundering when he got home, hurray.

"Someone saw you flirting with my betrothed this morning," came Jackson's angry voice from behind Stiles.

Stiles quickly straightened, not wanting to be in a compromising position in the other's presence. Scott stepped to Stiles' side, giving Jackson a hard look.

"You know she doesn't spare me a second thought," replied Stiles carefully.

"Stay away from Lydia," ground out Jackson stepping forward and jabbing a finger into Stiles' chest. "I don't care if you're the commander's son, if you come near her again... not even the king could save you."

Stiles tried not to tremble under the cold stare of Jackson. He looked from the finger still poking him in the chest up to the angry face of the young man before grinning nervously and pushing his hand away.

"No problem," said Stiles, nodding emphatically. "Don't even worry about it, I mean, who cares if I was just buying a pie, right? I'll stay away, no need to give my money to your soon-to-be inlaws."

Jackson's jaw clenched before he let out a long breath.

"FINE," he groaned. "You can see her to buy pies, but nothing else."

Stiles nodded, trying to keep the amusement out of his face because even if Jackson's threat sounded weak, he did have the ability to back it up. Once Jackson had stormed off, Stiles let out a breath and looked at Scott.

"What happened to 'you did well today, Stillinski'?" asked Stiles doing a poor impersonation of Jackson's voice when he quoted him.

Scott laughed and patted Stiles on the picked up their sacks and walked together out from the side of the castle stables, following the dirt path to the main one.

"It isn't right that Lydia is to marry Jackson," complained Stiles. "She's the most beautiful and intelligent girl in the entire duchy and Jackson's just a dimwitted, power-hungry..."

"Yes," sighed Scott. "I know, Lydia is wonderful and Jackson is so wrong for her and if only Lydia would give you a chance you could show her how good for her you could be."

Stiles harrumphed at Scott.

"Well, it's true," he said.

Scott nodded mock seriously and Stiles grinned and pushed him lightly.

"I don't talk about her half as much as you do Allison," said Stiles.

"And I haven't even met her yet," moaned Scott, throwing his head back and groaning at the sky.

Stiles rolled his eyes. They walked together in companionable silence after that before reaching the main path where they would part ways.

"Oh, before you go home," said Scott, suddenly, reaching to pull a paper from inside his tunic. "Could you please give this to..."

Stiles took the folded paper before Scott had finished speaking.

"Yes, I'll give it to your mother," he sighed.

Scott grinned brightly at Stiles and Stiles just shook his head.

"You have eyes like a puppy," said Stiles. "It is upsetting how you can get whatever you like with them."

"Thanks Stiles," said Scott. "You are a true friend."

Stiles nodded and turned to leave.

"Just come speak to her yourself one of these days," he called out over his shoulder as he started toward home.

"See you tomorrow, Stiles," called Scott.

* * *

The moon was full that night. Stiles lay tucked in his bed under his massive pile of blankets. He couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he would see bright red glowing ones peering back at him. So, instead, he had opened the drape of his bedroom window and lay watching the round, pale moon make its journey across the night sky. In the distance he heard a wolf howl just like the night before.

It was unusual to hear wolves so near the town and castle Sabhrick. The nearest pack of wolves were the nightwolves of the Oíche Forest in the South of Sabhrick, and the Southeastern side of Rathuno. Stiles shivered at the sound wondering why a wolf or pack of wolves had moved so closeby.

He had finally fallen to sleep despite the bright moon, the sound of wolves, and his memory of the prisoner's nightmarish eyes when a loud bang at his window woke him. Stiles jumped out of bed, falling in a pile of blankets on the floor, his heart pounding in his ears. He scrambled across the floor and grabbed the tall, simplistic candelabrum standing next to his bed. Struggling out of the confines of the blankets, he stood up and pointed it at the intruder, candles falling to the floor, as if it were one of the pikes he trained with before he realized the dark form was Scott.

"What the hell?" exclaimed Stiles in a low hiss, dropping the candelabrum with a dull clatter.

"Stiles," gasped Scott falling to the floor out of Stiles' window. "Help me."

Chest still heaving at being awoken so rudely, Stiles took in how Scott lay on the floor clutching at his side. He edged closer to Scott where he lay in the light of the moon shining through the window and then noticed the growing pool of crimson blood at Scott's side.

"WHAT?!"

"I was bitten... by a wolf," panted out Scott.

"WHAT!" exclaimed Stiles a third time, shaking his head and gesturing wildly. "What do you mean you were bitten by a wolf? Why were you even out? It is the middle of the night.. SCOTT! Wolves don't just bite a person and then run off, this doesn't make any sense..."

"Stiles," cut in Scott his voice hoarse but cutting with frustration. "I have more important issues right now than learning about the habits of wolves."

"RIGHT," gasped Stiles, rocking back and forth on his feet with adrenaline. "Of course, if it were mad with rabies and that was why it bit you..."

"Stiles!"

"I'll go get your mother," decided Stiles before turning to his door.

"No!" exclaimed Scott. "No, no no, Stiles! No! I haven't seen her in months. I don't want to upset and this would definitely be the kind of thing to upset her... just... just get something to stop the bleeding."

"Ugh," groaned Stiles, thinking Scott an idiot. "Fine."

"And some ale," whined Scott. "Definitely ale. This hurts so much, Stiles."

Stiles nodded and hurried out of his room. He hurried into the kitchen to fetch the things he might need. When he returned, Scott was still laying in a fetal position on his bedroom floor.

"I'm back," whispered Stiles before crouching down beside Scott.

He set the things down beside Scott before pulling him up.

"You've gotta sit up if you want this ale," said Stiles while directing Scott to lean back against the wall below his window.

As Scott shakily raised the cup to his lips, Stiles pulled his other hand away from his side and let out a long whistle.

"Sweet mother of calamity," hissed Stiles. "That is nasty."

He wet a cloth in the small basin of water he had brought and held it to the wound. Scott flinched away from him exhaling heavily.

"Damnation, Stiles," he exclaimed in a low voice. "That feels like ice."

"Would you rather I took the time to start the fire in the kitchen and heat the water?" asked Stiles in a deadpanned voice. "Stop being a baby and let me tend to you."

He washed the wound the best he could and wrapped Scott's side with clean linen, but the wound didn't stop bleeding and the fabric quickly pinked and then turned crimson.  
"You do realize I have no idea what I'm doing, right?" asked Stiles as he watched the blood tint the white fabric. "Your mother would do a much better job."

"My mother can not know about this," replied Scott. "No one can."

"Why were you even out?" asked Stiles pressing more linen scraps against the wound hoping the pressure would help slow the bleeding. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to play with wolves?"

Scott hissed in pain.

"I wasn't playing with wolves," said Scott in a strained voice. "I was... it just... I heard father speaking of Duke Thomas and how he wanted my marriage to help strengthen our ties with the Argentes... and you know how Gerard Argente is known for his hunting... and there was a wolf howling.. and I went out riding.. and it just... it came out of nowhere."

Stiles furrowed his brow, Scott's story too discombobulated to follow, and decided to just latch onto the last thing he said.

"It came out of nowhere, bit you, and then ran off?" questioned Stiles.

"Yes," replied Scott simply.

Stiles' eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Seriously?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes, seriously," ground out Scott. "Are you done torturing me?"

"What?" asked Stiles before realizing he was still pressing the rag against Scott's side.

He pulled all the fabric away to see if the bleeding had slowed.

"If I didn't see the teeth marks myself," said Stiles. "I wouldn't believe you. It really just ran off after biting you?"

"Yes," groaned Scott. "Stiles, it hurts so much. The ale isn't helping."

"I'll get you some wine from the kitchen," said Stiles, getting to his feet and picking up the soiled rags he had piled in the basin of water.

"Thanks," sighed Scott.

"You're shivering," said Stiles. "Go get in my bed, just.. don't bleed on my blankets."  
"Don't tell anyone I'm here," ordered Scott as he shakily got to his feet and began to creep toward Stiles' bed.

"I know... you don't want to worry your mother," sighed Stiles, wishing his friend were a little more sound of mind.

"No one must know I was out," exclaimed Scott crawling into Stiles' bed.

Stiles watched him before turning to leave.

"It is going to be kind of hard to hide," he said.

"Just hurry," pleaded Scott.

"Fiiiine," replied Stiles before leaving the room.

He cursed under his breath as he hurried to the kitchen, hoping Scott's life wasn't in danger from the wound in his side and trying not to think about the fact that an actual wolf had attacked him. What was going on?


	2. Chapter 2

**Fic Title: **Of Honour, Power and Wolves  
**Fic Acronym: **OHPAW  
**Fandom: **Teen Wolf

**Fic Rating: **M  
**Chapter Rating:** PG

**Fic Word Count: **unknown  
**Chapter Word Count:** 7,498

**Beta:** Bononoho

**Main Character:** Stiles  
**Pairings:** Derek/Stiles, Scott/Allison, Lydia/Jackson

**Warnings:** none for this chapter

**Summary**: Stiles' life is about to be turned upside down by his curiosity of the mysterious prisoner in Duke Guaire's dungeon. You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat... perhaps in this case it is more like, curiosity set the cat out on a mad adventure dealing with magic and politics, wolves and villains, all to clear his father's name and expose a corrupt duke... but that _is_ kind of a long phrase.

* * *

**chapter two**

* * *

The sun was shining brightly even from its low stance in the sky. The day was still young, but the heat of it was already beginning to grow uncomfortable. Stiles knew it was going to feel like a long day, but he was more anxious about how Scott was doing. Which was why he nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw his friend's profile across the field. He had been chatting with one of the other trainees as they waited for Armsmaster Finstock, but he stopped mid sentence, his eyes widening and his pace fumbling. He patted his companion on the shoulder awkwardly in some form of good bye before turning to jog toward Scott who was talking to one of his tutors.

"Thank you," spoke Scott just as Stiles reached the two.

"I will see you after training," said the elderly man, nodding his head and then giving Stiles a squinty eye before turning to leave.

Stiles made a face at the back of his head as he watched the man leave. Once he was gone, he turned to Scott.

"I had expected you to be in bed," he breathed out, keeping his voice low.

"So had I," replied Scott before giving Stiles a confused grin. He looked excited but also a little... worried? Stiles wasn't sure how to interpret his expression.

Scott pushed at his tunic to show Stiles where his bite had been. The key word in that sentence was "had".

"Wha..." Stiles opened his mouth to speak but instead just left it hanging in surprise as he reached out to poke at Scott's side. "Okay, honestly... what?"

"Exactly!" exclaimed Scott. He glanced around to make sure they didn't have anyone else's attention as the group of trainees trickled in around them wearing their gear and moving around to get muscles warmed up. "It healed!"

Stiles shook his head.

"Healed would be scar tissue and some leftover bruising of some sort," said Stiles. "It outright disappeared!"

"I don't understand it either," said Scott, his eyes wide with excitement. "At first I wondered if perhaps I had dreamed the entire thing, but you confirmed everything for me just now."

Stiles looked back down at the unmarred skin of Scott's torso before shaking his head.

"Consider the likelihood that we both dreamed it," he spoke, his voice sounding a bit strained.

"That's impossible," argued Scott.

"No," said Stiles, shaking his head before poking roughly at Scott's side. "This is impossible."

Scott opened his mouth to speak but was cut off before he could by the sudden presence of Armsmaster Finstock.

"Good morrow my pretty maidens," called out Finstock, patting Stiles heavily on the shoulder causing him to wince. He looked down at where Scott still had his tunic pulled aside before giving the two boys a scandalized look. Scott quickly dropped his clothing back into place.

"Foreplay on the field?" asked Jackson in a mocking voice as he sidled up to them, his best friend Dan in tow. "I'm not interested in your exhibitionism, boys."

"At least they're getting more action than you, Jack!" laughed a tall young man from the opposite side. "Lydia is such a..."

"...beautiful, intelligent, pure, talented maiden?" cut in Stiles helpfully.

The taller boy rolled his eyes at Stiles while Jackson glared murderously. Stiles frowned at him, hoping he looked menacing but figuring that he didn't considering he felt more intimidated than intimidating. He moved a bit closer to Scott. It was as if Jackson believed Stiles had been the one speaking ill of Lydia and not Jackson's idiotic friend - unfair.

"All right, lads," called out Finstock as the group huddled around him. "Let's get some training in before you need to leave for tea with your grannies."

Stiles patted his hands over his chest and shoulders, checking that his padding was in place, before turning his attention back to their armsmaster.

"Scott," bellowed Finstock, "take a wooden sword and stand center. We're going to practise our charges today."

"Why me?" grunted out Scott before turning to go grab up a wooden sword from the barrel near the storage shed.

"Because... Scott," ground out Finstock in annoyance, "it is going to be a long, hot day and I want to keep morale up. I don't know about you, but my spirits always rise when I get to beat on dumb animals."

"Why me?" repeated Scott, this time a little higher pitched.

"Eh," said Finstock with a shrug, "you have the best nurse maid... plus, I don't like you."

Scott looked to Stiles with a panicked expression while the other boys chuckled amongst themselves. Stiles couldn't really do anything so just grimaced and shrugged regretfully.

"Greenberg!" called out Finstock as Scott moved to the middle of the field. "On your feet, lad! Now, everyone line up!"

The group of young men lined up, Stiles sending Scott looks of regret from where he stood near the back of the group. Scott tightened his grip on the hilt of the training sword and hunched down a little in preparation for the first attack.

Jackson was at the front of the group; of course he was. He wouldn't miss such a perfect opportunity to inflict pain on the duke's son. Stiles held his breath as Armsmaster Finstock called out for Jackson to begin. He watched Scott brace himself as Jackson flew into action, running at Scott while pulling his arm back for a powerful swing.

Miraculously, Scott managed to duck in time and Jackson missed. Stiles breathed out in relief, but Jackson pivoted, recovering quickly from the surprise, and swung at Scott again. This time his wooden sword made contact with Scott, knocking him to the ground wheezing. Jackson stepped a foot on Scott's back with a smug look on his face. Stiles didn't hear what Jackson said to Scott, but he was sure it was cruel.

"Okay, next!" called out Finstock and Jackson reluctantly let Scott up.

Scott looked angry as he wiped a hand over his face, and got back into a ready position. Stiles thought his eyes flashed a strange bright golden colour, but he could have been mistaken. The next young man ran at Scott, this time he swiftly made the first hit. Stiles' mouth dropped open in shock. Scott moved out of the way with every lunge the other made and rewarded him with a clack on the shoulder, arm, leg, or sword with his own. He was able to knock the other to the ground seconds later.

Finstock was gaping. "Next," he choked out.

Every time someone ran at Scott, they were quickly defeated. Stiles watched in amazement. When it came to be his turn, Jackson pushed him aside so he could have another go at Scott. Even he was quickly disarmed and found to be lying in the dirt.

"Okay!" called out Finstock. "That's enough of that. Everyone go run the length of the field. I want you all to do four laps before returning to me."

"What was that?" demanded Stiles once they were finished training for the day and were back in the arms shed changing out of their training pads.

"I have no idea," answered Scott, shaking his head, his eyes similarly wide.

"You were magnificent!" exclaimed Stiles. "What happened?"

"Well, I have been training harder recently," said Scott as he rubbed a cloth over his damp torso. "I've been working on my physique even outside of training. I want to be all I can be by the time of Allison's arrival."

Stiles pushed back the urge to roll his eyes at the mention of Allison.

"No, this isn't simply you getting better, Scott," said Stiles. "Even with all the training in the world, you would not be able to move like I saw on the field.

"I find it insulting how you underestimate me."

Stiles scoffed at that.

"I'm sorry, Scott, but this isn't natural," he explained after a few beats. "And you were ahead of everyone when we had to run laps when normally you get out of breath so easily."

"I don't know what to tell you," said Scott. "One minute I was me, the next... I was still me, but I could do everything without feeling hindered by my lungs or muscles. They worked with me instead of against me."

"They always work with you, they are you...you wouldn't be able to move without...yeah... nevermind," sighed Stiles, feeling frustrated over his confusion at Scott's sudden improvement.

The other young men were giving them a wide berth, Stiles was resolutely enjoying it instead of feeling unnerved. Once their training gear was packed up, Stiles and Scott left together, walking side by side down the dusty dirt path. They didn't make it far before Stiles noticed his father leaving Tower Capalláidir. Curious, he patted Scott's shoulder in farewell before hurrying to his father.

"Hey, dah!" he called out, jogging awkwardly with his bag over his shoulder.

His father stopped and waited for him.

"What's going on?" asked Stiles once he reached his side.

"Did anyone ever explain to you about curiosity?" asked his father with a slightly perturbed look on his face.

"Yes," answered Stiles. "Repeatedly."

His father snorted.

"So, will you tell me what is going on?"

"Shouldn't you be headed home to get ready to meet with your tutor?" asked his father.

"No, I have plenty of time," replied Stiles, still waiting for some information.

"Stiles, you only see the tutor once a week. You can not miss a gathering; you will fall behind."

"Fine," sighed out Stiles, his shoulders slumping. "But I will be bringing this up again," he warned.

"I have no doubt," muttered his father.

* * *

Stiles managed to make it to the small group of pupils where they were gathered in their usual meeting spot near the old oak tree before master Cassius had started his weekly spiel. Still, he was the last to arrive and the elderly man gave him a sour look as he settled on the grass next to Issac. They were on a small hill that was not much more than a soft rise just outside of the castle, not far from the Cosain Tower. From where they sat, they had a good view of both the main road that led to the nearby town and the Tuaisceart Sea.

Seagulls cawed in the air, the long grass waved in the breeze, and men hollered at each other from the ocean port below the steep cliff. It all served as distractions for Stiles who wished he could be anywhere other than sitting at his tutor's feet having to listen to him drone on about the history of the kingdom's settlement in his nasally, monotone voice. Stiles didn't care how the duchys had come to be, nor the long line of lineage the current king had come from. He let out a soft sigh, turning his attention longingly to the castle. It also brought Jackson's face into his view and he noticed the other boy staring daggers at him. Unsure of what would have Jackson upset with him at the moment, Stiles scrunched his face at him before turning away.

As master Cassius droned on, Stiles' thoughts turned to the prisoner. He didn't want to wonder too hard at why he so quickly became as fixated on the man as he was. He simply played it off as the mystery and allowed his mind to drift across possible scenarios. The man was built like a miner, but being treated as a powerful creature; he was worth keeping locked up in the duke's special tower, but there was no talk among the townspeople. Was he a knight from another kingdom? Was he some sort of spy? Where did they capture him? Could he be a pirate? A high profile pirate captured at their port, why would they keep him secret? Perhaps they feared his crew coming for him and burning their town in revenge.

But his eyes...

How did they glow red?

Was he some sort of draíodóir? A wizard or some sort of seductive priest? A sagart? Perhaps the familiar of a kaillek? It would make sense that he be a demonic spirit of some sort with how they treated him with fear. If he were a familiar, though, wouldn't his kaillek come to him and -wait, who said seductive?

Stiles shook himself from his thoughts.

"...and if you take anything away from my talk today," spoke master Cassius, "let it be that."

Stiles cursed at himself under his breath.

"I will see you here again next week," he said in dismissal as he grabbed his cane and shakily rose to his feet. "May the Emerald Sisters watch over you."

The small group of boys from families wealthy enough to afford a scholar in the family got up and began to disperse. Jackson found Stiles, grabbing him roughing by the shoulder and swinging him around.

"Whaaa," stammered Stiles in surprise.

"Tell me of Scott," demanded Jackson, bodily moving Stiles and himself away from any curious ears. "How did he do it? Was it some special tea or potion? Did he go to a kaillek? Was it that creepy tutor of his, Allen Deaton?"

"What?" exclaimed Stiles. "I don't know! What do you mean Deaton?"

"Some say he is a draio of some sort," answered Jackson before remembering himself and expression turning even more sour. "Shut up, just tell me what Scott did to get so good."

Stiles closed his mouth and simply shrugged.

"Tell me, damn it!" hissed Jackson.

"You said to shut up," explained Stiles with a shrug

"Horse piss, Stiles," ground out Jackson giving him a light shove in warning before stalking away. "You should be a court jester!" he called over his shoulder as he reached the side of his friend, Dan.

* * *

Stiles was waiting for his father that evening to ask again about the prisoner just as he had promised. He was seated at the long table in the great hall, paging aimlessly through an old encyclopedia between sips from his bowl of soup while tapping his free hand against the table.

"Stop that," ordered Mistress Melissa as she walked past, reaching out to slap at his hand. "You'll wake the gods."

"Hah," scoffed Stiles, but he clenched his hand to keep himself from going back to tapping.

She set out a plate of fruit, cheese, and bread and a large wooden goblet before disappearing back into the kitchen. Moments later the front door swung open and Stiles' father stepped into the manor. He looked tired, with a heavy stance and stooped shoulders. He took off his boots and stepped into his turnshoes before entering the great hall.

"Stiles," he said in greeting as he took a seat at the head of the table.

"Father," answered Stiles in the same.

He bit his lips together to keep from asking right away, and turned his attention back to what he had been reading, though it really had little consequence to him. Mistress Melissa came in with a pitcher of wine and silently filled his goblet. Stiles didn't miss the way his father's face softened at her presence.

"Soup?" she asked.

"No, thank you," he said. "What's here is enough."

She nodded, smiling serenely and leaving.

"What are you reading?" asked his father, attention turning to Stiles once Melissa was out of the room.

"Uh," hummed out Stiles, turning the book over to read the title to him. "Diarmad's Encyclopedia of Native Plants and Herbs."

His father's eyebrow rose and corners of his mouth quirked at the sides.

"Okay," he said. "Have you learned anything interesting?"

Stiles shrugged, smiling at his father.

"Naw," he said. "Just some light reading while I waited for your arrival."

"I see," sighed out his father, setting down the hunk of bread he had been about to take a bite of. "Well, let's have it then. I know you want to ask."

Stiles was silent a moment, wanting to know everything he could about the prisoner, but also aware that his father wasn't about to sit him down on his knee to tell him a story that began with once upon a time. He needed the right question to get the most information. He wasn't sure what question that would be, though.

"What is to be done with the prisoner?" he asked.

"I am not certain," replied his father. "Duke Guaire has called for a meeting tomorrow to discuss that very thing."

Stiles hummed in response before taking a long drink of his soup.

"What were you doing in the tower today?"

"Checking on him," replied his father neutrally.

"Do you do that every day?" asked Stiles. "Don't you trust your men to give you reports?"

"This is a special case."

Stiles nodded thoughtfully.

* * *

Stiles knew he shouldn't be there, but he couldn't stay away knowing the answers to so many of his questions could be learned just by the simple task of listening in. So, he entered the hall of Sabhrick castle under the pretense of meeting Scott and then crept down the wrong corridor so that he could hide next to the decorative tapestry blocking the entrance to the meeting room.

"What shall be done about the prisoner?" he heard one man ask, though he was unsure of who it was.

"We should contact the king, tell him of the creature..."

Stiles furrowed his brow; what did they mean by creature?

"...perhaps there is use for him. You could use more reason to be in contact with the king."

"I concur, it will serve to open up a dialogue and perhaps we can learn about our standing in light of the mi-"

"With all due respect, I feel I must cut in," started a new voice, sounding a little gravelly with advanced age.

"What is it, Gerard?"

Stiles pressed closer against the wall, listening intently through the muffling of the tapestry next him. Gerard? Gerard Argente? The grandfather of Allison Argente and the most experienced and deadly of all hunters in the kingdom?

"Your prisoner will be only a source of trouble as long as it is allowed to live."

"Are you suggesting we kill him in cold blood?"

"I'm suggesting you let me put it down for you," Gerard countered. "It is evil, possessed by the blood of daemons straight from the womb of its bitch."

Stiles eyes widened, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. The words were harsh and spoken with even harsher passion. He didn't understand what he was hearing; were they really talking about the prisoner?

"It is secure in Tower Capalláidir," reasoned the duke.

"Not for long," replied Gerard.

"Nonsense," said someone else. "Let us send word to the king and have him decide what is to be done."

"You will not be able to hold it long, and once it is out, the gods help you," warned Gerard. "It will hold a grudge and so will every man, woman, and child who learn that it was your fault."

"Stiles!" hissed his father, suddenly. "You can not be here!"

Stiles cursed under his breath, nearly falling over in surprise as he whipped his head around to see his father leaning over him.

"What, whoa... hello!" he whispered.

"...wolves will devour you!" continued Gerard in the background. Stiles was caught between trying to continue to listen in and paying attention to his outraged father.

"Stiles, you have to leave... now!"

"Right, yeah, sorry.. just.. why are they talking about the prisoner like he is an animal?" asked Stiles, getting up from the floor and dusting himself off.

"Enough," commanded a deep voice from the other room, recapturing Stiles' attention. "Let us move on to other issues. The mine is still..."

"Stiles!" hissed his father, again.

Stiles let out a frustrated sigh but nodded his head.

"I'm going, I'm going," he said, before slinking away.

He moved swiftly down the empty corridor, feeling his father's eyes on him where the older Stillinski was still standing at the door he had been listening at. When Stiles came to the corner, he looked back over his shoulder at his father standing with his chin raised and his body at attention, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He looked like such a good soldier; the perfect man to lead the duke's personal regiment. Stiles would never be able to live up to the name. He turned, then, and sped into the large front entry of the castle's hall, nearly running into Scott.

"Stiles?" Scott asked in confusion, hands quickly reaching out to grab Stiles by the shoulders and keep him from falling. "What are you-"

"Just coming to see you, my dear friend," panted out Stiles, with a guilty grin.

"O...kay," said Scott.

Stiles noticed the other people in the room, then. Ladies and men looking at Scott and him with curious interest. He mentally flailed for a moment before coming up with something to say.

"Would it please you to go for a ride?" he asked. "My father's mare is in need of some exercise."

"I... but... yes, that would be... okay?" answered Scott, seeming completely lost that Stiles suddenly had the urge to pet his hair and offer him a bowl of milk like some sort of abandoned puppy.

"Splendid!" said Stiles, grinning broadly. "Shall we away?"

At Scott's nod, Stiles turned to leave the castle hall as quickly as he could without seeming any more conspicuous than he already did. He noticed an older woman whispering to a young handmaiden and cringed knowing they were assuming things.

* * *

That evening when Stiles' father returned home, he did not speak. They ate their nighttime meal in silence, Stiles struggling to keep himself not to fill the quiet with nervous tapping. He knew his father was upset with him. The next morning was much the same. Stiles entered the great hall to find his father already seated and eating. The man didn't acknowledge his presence when Stiles took his usual seat at his left. Mistress Melissa brought him a plate and cup, but Stiles couldn't eat seeing the tension in his father's jaw and the strain around his eyes that he knew his actions had put there. Instead, he had pocketed an apple from the bowl on the table and had bid Melissa goodbye before heading out early to his daily training.

He hated that his father was so cross with him; he hated that he had been the source of more stress in his father's already stressful life. He worried for his father's health, for his safety, knowing that the man was all he had for true family in the world. Despite his jest and jives, despite his dislike for the ducal guard, Stiles held his father in the highest of regards. He respected him and loved him dearly. He knew that his father was worried that his curiosity over the prisoner, that his inability to just let things lie, was going to get him and their entire household into trouble. He couldn't fault his father for thinking that, he kind of feared the same. So, why... even with his anxiety over his father's anger toward him turning his stomach... why was the prisoner back at the forefront at his mind?

By the time he made it into the first bailey of the castle, Stiles' stomach was rumbling indignantly at having skipped breakfast. The smell of Lydia's family bakery wafted to him from the castle fair. He was still quite early for training, so Stiles turned and walked down the incline, through the stone archway and into the castle fair. Lydia was there placing her pies out to sell when Stiles arrived.

"Come to purchase another pie for your beau?" asked Lydia.

Stiles blinked at her in confusion for a millisecond before he realized she was teasing him about the other day. He let out a choked scoffing sound, not in the mood for joking, before nodding at the pie in her hand.

"I would like one," he said simply.

Lydia looked thrown at his demeanor. He understood why; he was not blind to his own ridiculous behavior when he was in her presence. He had been pining for her since... well, since he was old enough to pine.

He handed her a coin and she passed him the pie. She waited silently while he sniffed it, letting the warm scent of freshly baked crust and meat fill his senses and make his mouth water. He took a bite and, truly, it was the best pie he had ever tasted. The crust was light and flakey, the juices of the meat rich and flavorful. He hummed his appreciation while he chewed. Still, Lydia stood with her attention on him. Having his crush's attention on him for so long was creating an itch under his skin. He wanted to fidget, to grin at her nervously, to fill the quiet with babbled words. He remained quiet, though, knowing that the only reason he was holding her attention for so long was because of his different manner.

Finally, Lydia got back to work and Stiles felt like he could exhale. He continued to stand there, though, slowly eating his breakfast while the castle fair came to life around him. Lydia busied herself with putting out more pastries, pies, and breads to sell. Stiles thoughts moved back to Tower Capalláidir and the prisoner it held as he licked the last crumbs of the delicious pie from his fingers.

"What if someone captured a doerg," he suddenly asked Lydia.

She paused as was about to place a tray on the standing rack in front of the bakery.

"That is a strange question," she said carefully.

"A wild doerg," continued Stiles.

"Is there any other kind?"

"A wild doerg who had lived his life quietly, doing the things doergs do," pressed on Stiles, not acknowledging Lydia's comment. "He had never bothered anyone, just lived off the land and took care of his bitch and pups."

Lydia set the rack down and turned to Stiles, giving him a stern look like she wanted him to get to the point.

"Along comes a hunter and decides to capture him," said Stiles. "He takes him home and locks him away in his woodshed. Then, a few days later, his wife tells him that he needs to do something with the doerg because she fears for their children's lives having it locked in the woodshed; she fears it could get out."

"Is this a riddle?" asked Lydia, but Stiles ignored her because he was on a roll.

"The hunter decides he will kill the doerg to keep his family safe," said Stiles. "Now, what if someone heard his plans? Perhaps one of his servants-"

"Hunters don't have servants, Stiles," cut in Lydia, starting to grow bored.

"-or perhaps one of his sons," pushed on Stiles. "It doesn't matter who, but perhaps they hear his plans and feel it unjust. What if that someone decided to set the doerg free?"

Lydia pursed her lips at that.

"If someone were to set him free," she said, slowly, as if thinking it through as she spoke, or perhaps thinking Stiles of unsound mind. "Then the doerg would turn and kill that someone. He would probably then destroy the hunter's home, devour his family, and shit on the carcass of his savior who was a complete fool for letting him go in the first place."

Stiles was taken aback at how she spat the final words of her response. It took him a few moments to swallow down his surprise before he grinned at her.

"That was crass, Lydia Martin," he said, grin only growing as he spoke. "I love it."

Lydia rolled her eyes at him and turned to get back to work. Stiles hovered nearby, thinking about the prisoner and wondering how close his analogy and Lydia's projected outcome were to reality. Why had they referred to the mysterious man as a creature? Why had his father, the first night, jokingly warned the two soldiers not to let the man bite them? Why had the prisoner growled at Stiles instead of speaking? Why and how had his eyes flashed red?

"What if the doerg didn't turn on his savior? What if he were thankful?" he asked when Lydia passed by him again, another tray in her arms.

She raised her eyebrow at him. It was written across her face that she thought him daft.

"Animals can not be thankful, Stiles," she said. "They lack the intelligence for such intricate cause and effect... as well as emotion."

Stiles sighed.

"It just isn't right to cage a beast and then destroy him because he is too risky to keep..." said Stiles, feeling defeated and frustrated.

Lydia set the tray on the rack and turned to Stiles, her expression slightly softer. Stiles had to appreciate her willingness to talk to him without asking what it was they were truly speaking about.

"You're right," she said, "it is cruel. The person who would do such a thing, and do it so thoughtlessly shows a terrible lack of character... but, do you have the courage, or the stupidity, to free the beast?"

She stared intently at Stiles for a few long moments, then. Stiles clenched his hands at his sides, refusing to fidget.

"Hmmm, yes," she said after what felt like an eternity, her eyes losing some of their intensity, "definitely stupidity. You are definitely stupid enough."

Stiles scrunched his nose up at that, frowning deeply.

"Uh, thank you?" he asked.

"You're welcome," she answered matter-of-factly. "Now, buy another pie for my trouble."

Stiles grinned and fished out another coin to hand to her. She took it from him and a devilish smile spread across her face as she grabbed another pie from the rack to hand to him.

"Enjoy," she said before turning her back to him.

* * *

Scott proved himself to not only to still remain completely well, though he should not yet be healed from the bite, but he was increasingly more athletic, quicker on his feet, and stronger than anyone else. Stiles didn't understand, neither did their armsmaster who looked completely baffled by the sudden change in his least favorite trainee. He seemed more pleased about it than concerned, but Scott agreed to take Stiles with him to the library where he met with Deaton, one of his tutors, in the afternoons, just the same.

"There have to be answers here," said Stiles, going immediately to the closest shelf of ancient-looking books and scrolls when they entered the room. "It is just a matter of finding the correct book."

He ran his finger along the spines of books as he read the titles to himself, trying to get a feel for the placement of the room. He heard Scott collapse in the armchair by the fire.

"Tired?" he asked.

"Not even a little bit," answered Scott. "One would think I would be after working so hard in training this morning, but..."

"Armsmaster Finstock really ran you through drills," said Stiles. "He seemed to be waiting for you to finally collapse, but you never did."

"I never did," repeated Scott in agreement.

"And you aren't tired?" asked Stiles, turning from the books to look at Scott.

Scott was lounging in the chair, but not in a defeated or tired way, just relaxed.

"This all started after you were bitten, right?" asked Stiles.

"I suppose..." said Scott hesitantly, a frown creasing his brow. "It could be coincidence, Stiles."

"There are few coincidences in this world," muttered Stiles as he turned his eyes back to the titles of the books at his disposal.

"Why would a wolf biting me make me stronger?" asked Scott. "It must be something else."

"I'm just trying to go with what we know," explained Stiles while reaching to grab a book from the shelf. "Has anything else strange happened to you in the last while?"

Scott frowned contemplatively. Stiles wanted to snigger at how he appeared to be in pain whenever he thought too hard on something.

"Nothing," said Scott, finally. "There was the wolf bite, then I healed overnight, and now I'm stronger and faster than I've ever been."

"Are you sure it was a wolf?" asked Stiles.

"Yes," ground out Scott. "I'm not an idiot, Stiles. I know what a wolf looks like."

"It could have been a doerg," suggested Stiles.

"A doerg?"

"You know, like a wolf but bigger than a wolf, hibernates like a bear... a doerg," said Stiles with an eyeroll.

"I _know_ what a _doerg_ is," ground out Scott. "I also know there aren't any doergs this side of The Great Forest."

Stiles shrugged.

"Oh! What if it was a kaillek disguised as a wolf?"

"They can disguise themselves as wolves?" asked Scott, looking horrified.

"They're magic, Scott," deadpanned Stiles.

Stiles turned back to the books, pulling a few from the shelf and moving to drop them to the table. He flipped through the pages, looking for anything that could possibly point him in the right direction. He had no idea what he was looking for.

"Gerard Argente is here," spoke Scott. "Do you think that means Allison will be here soon, too?"

Stiles didn't look up from the book where he was reading about diseases transferred from animal bites. He hummed in response. Scott was quiet for a bit and Stiles read about a sickness from an animal bite that could turn the victim mad.

"I wonder why Gerard came from Fásach so early... and without her," mused Scott, suddenly.

"Probably to take care of your father's monster problem," replied Stiles with a shrug, he paged through the book before stopping at an illustration of a large man being attacked by a wolf.

"What?" asked Scott.

"Wolves..." said Stiles distractedly, tapping his finger on the book. "This all began with a wolf."

"Did you find something?"

"Are you experiencing any headaches or nausea?" asked Stiles.

"No."

"Delusions?"

"I don't think so."

"Sleeplessness?"

"No, I sleep soundly."

"Shortness of breath?"

"No," groaned Scott, "I'm perfectly fine!"

"Hmm," hummed out Stiles before pushing the book aside and grabbing another from the pile he had started on the table. "Perhaps it wasn't from the wolf, perhaps the wound was infected another way."

"The wound is gone," argued Scott. "What monster problem?"

"They said something about wolves in the meeting as well," said Stiles, staring blindly at the open books laid out in front of him as if they would tell him exactly what he needed to know if only he stared hard enough. "It has to be connected."

"I believe you are looking for this," came a deep, smooth voice, startling Stiles.

He looked up to see Scott's tutor, Deaton, holding a small, dark green book out to him. Stiles slowly reached to receive it, staring at Deaton in shock.

"Uhhh," he stammered.

He hadn't heard Deaton come in, nor had he known him to already have been in the room. From the look of Scott behind Deaton, still sitting in the armchair, he hadn't known his presence until just then, either. Deaton's thumb was in the book as he passed it. Stiles flipped it open to the page and found a strange illustration of a wolf-like monster taking up one side while the other was titled "Irawolf" in large, scrolling calligraphic letters.

"Um, thank you?" stuttered Stiles, looking up at Deaton.

The older man simply smiled benignly before leaving the room. Once the door shut behind him, Stiles and Scott both turned to each other with wide eyes.

"I didn't know he was in here," said Scott.

"Nor did I," responded Stiles, shaking his head. "He just appeared as if from nowhere."

They gaped at each other for a few moments longer before Stiles finally looked down at the book in his hands.

"The legend of the Irawolf," he read aloud.

"What's an irawolf?" asked Scott.

Stiles turned the book around to show him the both stared down at the creature sketched in black ink on the page. It was monstrous, standing on hind legs like a burly, crouching man. Its face was a mixture of wolf features contorted on a human head. Its body was covered in fur, from its hand extended long claws, and its feet looked like large wolf paws.

"The irawolf is an evil daemon," read Stiles, "born from the womb of a human mother and the seed of a draíodóir or incubus. It is a shapeshifter with three forms; man, wolf, and irawolf."

"This must be a book of fairy tales," exclaimed Scott in response. "There is no way such a thing can exist!"

"It says that even as humans, you can tell an irawolf because they have glowing eyes," said Stiles before pausing as realization hit him.

"What does this have to do with me?" asked Scott.

Stiles bit his bottom lip as he read further. The next sentence explained that in human form the irawolf was stronger and faster than was considered possible for humans. He swallowed heavily then looked up at Scott with a faked smile.

"It doesn't," said Stiles with a shrug. "Let's go, I'm starving."

"Okay," said Scott, giving him a suspicious look before seeming to shrug off his worries.

Stiles slipped the little green book into a pocket inside his tunic once Scott's back was to him before following him out. He felt like he was only a few sentences away from learning exactly how everything fit into place.

* * *

That evening Stiles stayed up reading by candlelight. He read through the section of the little green book Deaton had given him about the irawolf and realized that it was precisely what the mysterious prisoner in the tower must be. It was no wonder the soldiers were scared of the prisoner. Stiles' stomach turned at the memory of the man's eyes glowing red at him.

Stiles couldn't sleep. He laid in his bed tracing the image of the irawolf drawn in the book with his finger while wondering. Man or beast, Stiles truly felt that the prisoner did not deserve the fate Gerard Argente had in store for him. He had to grin at himself, though, when he thought back to the talk of the doerg he had with Lydia that morning-he had been closer to the truth than he could possibly have imagined. Was he even a man in any way? Could he even speak? Was he just a monster in a man's skin? If Stiles were to free him, would he be damning the entire town?

He couldn't take it anymore, Stiles got out of bed and pulled on some clothes. He would go to the tower and look upon the face of the irawolf. If he could find even a hint of humanity in the prisoner, he would set about freeing him that very night. He had no idea how, but he would.

* * *

Stiles cursed at himself as he approached the castle in the darkness. The flickering light from the torch by the heavy door the only thing lighting his path. He tried to be stealthy as he edged along the stone wall separating the baileys. He had absolutely no plan and he was only going to get himself into more trouble. He had already put his father on edge by listening in on the meeting in the duke's hall, if he were to be caught that night, he would surely be whipped. As he got closer to the tower, though, he heard the muffled sound of snoring coming from within. Perhaps fortune was in his favor.

Random apologies and excuses already waiting upon his lips, Stiles pushed open the door and stepped into the tower. The night guard was slumped over in the corner, snoring loudly. Stiles glanced around, there was no one else except for the prisoner who was staring at him intently from behind the bars of his cell. Stiles closed the door behind him, wincing when the guard stirred at the noise it made, then tiptoed down the steps and across the floor.

"Hi," whispered Stiles as he reached the supposed-irawolf's cell. "I.. uh... have come to.. rescue you? Perhaps?"

Stiles wasn't sure what he was doing now that he was there. He had wanted to see the prisoner, thinking that seeing him would help him determine whether he were human enough to deserve freedom. Standing in front of his cage, though, Stiles didn't know what sort of test he should put the prisoner through to determine such a thing.

"But it isn't just humans who deserve freedom," said Stiles, suddenly. "Anything that breathes deserves that... don't you think?"

The prisoner's eyes flashed red in the flickering light cast by the torch.

"You're an irawolf," spoke Stiles, his voice always low because of the sleeping soldier.

The prisoner didn't growl when Stiles got closer to the cell bars, unlike last time. Stiles squinted at him, moving closer and closer to the cell until his hands were wrapped around the bars. The prisoner bristled under Stiles' scrutiny, showing long fangs where human eye teeth should reside. Stiles took a step back.

"You've got to work with me, here," hissed Stiles. "Do you even understand anything I'm saying?"

He stared at the prisoner for a few beats.

"Blink once for yes and twice for no," said Stiles.

That got a low growl out of the prisoner. The corner of Stiles' mouth twitched at that. He would try a different tactic.

"I don't think I will let you out, afterall," sighed out Stiles with a shake of his head. "They are planning on killing you; putting you down like a dog. They say you are nothing but an animal. I wanted to free you so such a fate wouldn't meet you, but perhaps I was wrong to think you were more human that wolf."

The growling subsided at that. Stiles grinned triumphantly.

"Just get me out of here you little prick," ground out the prisoner in a deep, low voice.

"So you _can_ talk."

The prisoner's eyes flashed red in obvious annoyance.

"What's your name?" asked Stiles. "Can you really change into a wolf?"

"That idiot soldier could wake up at any moment and see you in here," said the prisoner. "Do you really want to be found out, or could we perhaps save our introductions for once we are safely away?"

Stiles glanced back over his shoulder at the guard.

"You may have a point," said Stiles. "Okay, how do I get you out?"

"You don't have a plan?" asked the prisoner. "What kind of idiot-"

"Considering that you're the one sitting in his own feces and piss in a dungeon cell and I'm the one free as a bird out here," cut in Stiles, "you may find it wise to keep the insults to a minimum."

The prisoner shut up at that, his jaw clenching and his eyes flashing red once again. Stiles nodded approvingly at his silence before straightening and surveying the room. There was no expectation that someone might want to free the wild creature, so there would be no need to safeguard the cell key.

"Aha," breathed Stiles victoriously when he spotted the ring of keys hanging from a wooden peg on the opposite wall.

He swiftly crossed the short distance and grabbed up the keys. They clinked together and Stiles froze. He glanced over at the guard who was beginning to stir. He mentally went through the entire list of curses known to him while turning and running on tiptoes back to the prisoner's cell. The snoring came back in full force and Stiles breathed a sigh of relief before attempting the first key on the ring. It did not work, but there were only three more.

The prisoner crept closer to the cell door. Stiles tried the second key and it fit. Before he turned it, though, it suddenly hit him that in a second the person behind the bars would be free. The person who was possibly some sort of wolf-like creature, who supposedly feasted on human flesh. He shuddered and looked up, his eyes finding the prisoner's.

"Will you kill me once I let you out?" asked Stiles.

"To find out, you will have to turn the key," responded the prisoner in a low whisper

Stiles licked his lips nervously. He looked over the figure of the prisoner standing in the shadows. The man's body was tense as if every muscle was flexed, ready and waiting. He looked impatient, his breathing a little too heavy for someone so stationery.

Stiles glanced down at the key in his hand and then back up at the prisoner. Lydia's words from earlier came to him. Yes, he really was stupid enough to free the beast.

Stiles turned the key.


End file.
